Galatians
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Scenes series. The tag for My Bloody Valentine, 5x14. Wincest.


**Contains dialogue from the episode My Bloody Valentine, it belongs to Eric Kripke and Ben Edlund.**

**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page. They will make more sense if read in order. :)**

* * *

><p><em>Carry each other's burdens.<em>

_Galatians 6:2_

"Famine?" Dean repeats incredulously, for what feels like the hundredth time. Doesn't matter, it still sounds ridiculous even though it's not the first horseman he's come across.

"Yes," Cas answers around a mouth full of food.

"So what, this whole town is just gonna eat, drink and screw itself to death?" Sam calls from the bathroom.

"We should stop it," Cas deadpans, like it's a real suggestion – like he really thinks Dean and Sam haven't already thought of that.

Dean barely resists rolling his eyes. "Hey, that's a great idea. How?"

Cas takes another bite of the cheeseburger. "How'd you stop the last horseman you met?"

Dean thinks for a second and then steps over to where his jacket's hanging on the coat rack, reaching into the pocket. "War got his mojo from this ring," he says, pulling it out and holding it up. "And after we cut it off, he just tucked tail and ran. And everybody that was affected, it was like they woke up out of a dream. You think Famine's got a class-ring too?"

"I know he does," Cas answers.

"Well okay, let's track him down and get to chopping!"

"Yeah." Cas stares disinterestedly down into the empty fast-food bag.

"What are you, the Hamburgler?" Dean snaps irritatedly.

"I've developed a taste for ground beef."

"Well have you even _tried_ to stop it?"

Cas frowns a little and looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye like he's mildly offended. "I'm an angel," he mutters. "I can stop any time I want."

This time Dean actually does roll his eyes. "Yeah. Whatever. Sam, let's roll," he calls.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounds out quietly and timidly from behind the bathroom door. "I, um … I can't." He steps into the main room, leaning against the door-frame, looking vaguely like death warmed over. His skin is pale and sallow, there's sweat beading along his hairline, and he's twitching a little. "I can't go," he grunts.

"What do you mean?"

"I think it got to me, Dean," he mumbles, eyes sadder than Dean's seen them in a long time. "I think I'm hungry for it."

Dean frowns. "Hungry for _what_?"

"You know," Sam replies, and yeah, Dean does know. For a second he was hoping against hope that he'd be wrong, but he knows. And it makes his whole chest clench in cold dread.

"Demon blood?" Dean rasps, and Sam doesn't answer but he shifts his gaze down to his shoes like he's too ashamed to look Dean in the face, and that's all the answer Dean needs.

"You gotta be kidding me." He turns to Cas frantically. "You gotta get him outta here, you gotta beam him to like Montana! Anywhere but here!"

Cas shakes his head shortly. "It won't work, he's already infected. The hunger is just going to travel with him."

"Well then what do we do?!" Dean cries, heart beating into his throat.

"You go cut that bastard's finger off," Sam breathes.

Dean sighs, but looks back at the angel and shrugs. "You heard him."

"But Dean, before you go you better …" Sam huffs and twitches again. "You better lock me down. But, _good_."

"Yeah. Right, I, uh …" Dean wracks his brain, glancing around the room as he thinks. "I think there's a set'a bracelets in the car, we'll cuff you to the sink. Cas, can you - ?"

"I'll be right back," he says, disappearing in a flutter of wings.

"Okay, c'mon, back in the bathroom," Dean orders, completely taking charge and letting his instincts take over.

Sam doesn't argue, he pushes his damp hair back off his forehead and moves into the smaller room again, leaning against the wall beside the sink and sliding down to the tiled floor. He looks up at Dean from under stitched eyebrows, hazel eyes swimming. It breaks Dean's heart to see him look so sad, so scared.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. He looks like he's going to cry and like he thinks Dean's about to scream at him – both of which make Dean feel lower than dirt.

"It's okay. It's not your fault, Sammy. Hey," he insists, when Sam just drops his gaze and continues to look miserable. "I mean it. Everything's gonna be okay, we're gonna go get that ring and you're gonna be just fine." He glances over his shoulder to make sure Cas isn't back with the handcuffs yet, and when he finds the room behind them empty, he leans down and presses a quick but soft kiss to Sam's forehead.

"I'm still sorry," Sam whispers brokenly.

"I found them," Cas says suddenly, reappearing just outside the doorway and holding the cuffs out for Dean to take.

He grabs them and the squats back down in front of his brother, securing them tight around Sam's wrists and wrapping the chain around the drainpipe so Sam can't get loose.

"Alright, well just hang in there. We'll be back as soon as we can," he says, trying his best to be reassuring but he's pretty sure his words come out thin and hollow. He's way more freaked out than he'd be willing to admit, but Sam can probably tell anyway.

"Be careful. And hurry," Sam grinds out.

Dean pats him on the shoulder because he can't kiss him again with Cas standing right there, and then he leaves, looking over his shoulder briefly at Sam as he goes. It makes him _ache _inside to see his baby brother so terrified, but he swallows his own pain and steels his resolve and somehow manages to shut the door behind them so Cas can push the wardrobe in front of it. It seems like enough to keep Sam trapped in there, but this wouldn't be the first time he managed to get out of a locked room that had a huge piece of furniture blocking the exit, so Dean doesn't want to take any chances. He grabs Cas by the sleeve of his trench-coat and drags him out the door as fast as he can.

* * *

><p>"<em>That's one deep, dark, nothing you've got there, Dean. Can't fill it, can't. Not with food, or drink, not even with sex. Oh you can smirk, and joke, lie to your brother, lie to yourself. But not to me! I can see inside you, Dean! I can see how broken you are, how defeated. You can't win and you know it, but you just keep fighting, just keep going through the motions. You're not hungry, Dean, because inside you're already dead."<em>

"Help! _Help_!"

Sam's terrified shout snaps Dean painfully back to reality, where he's standing in Bobby's basement listening with gritted teeth to Sam detoxing. For the second time, no less. As if the first time wasn't hard enough, as if he and Sam haven't already _suffered_ enough. Dean doesn't know why the world keeps throwing things like this at them, testing them, pushing them far beyond their limits, but there _has_ to be a point when it just becomes too much. There has to be a breaking point – there has to be some kind of summit to this mountain he's spent his whole life climbing only to get constantly kicked back down.

"Dean, Cas! If you're out there, please! Help!"

Dean takes a long drag from the bottle of Kentucky bourbon in his hand, but it does nothing to dull the pain. If anything, it just makes everything worse. It makes him sick to his stomach on top of feeling like his heart's being ripped out of his chest.

"You know, it's not him in there. Not really," Cas says quietly, like that's supposed to be some kind of consolation. It isn't, not at all. Especially as Sam yells "Dean, help me!" and Dean's gut twists and clenches with how much he wishes he _could_ help, and how utterly heartbreaking it is to know that he can't.

"I know," he chews out roughly.

"Dean, Sam just has to get it out of his system, and then he'll be – "

"Listen, I just …" Dean interrupts, pausing after a particularly loud bang from just past the heavy steel door.

"Please!" Sam shrieks, his horrified screams echoing around the iron room and cutting through Dean like white-hot knives.

"I just need to get some air," he mumbles, practically running in his efforts to get as far away from the horrible sounds as he can.

He takes the stairs two at a time, walking right passed Bobby and completely ignoring the concerned words the older man calls after him; he doesn't stop until he's far enough into the junkyard that he can't hear the noise from the house anymore. This can't be happening again. Dean doesn't know what he ever did to deserve this, but he has never in his life been in more pain than he is right now. He's always thought people who commit suicide are unbelievably selfish, but right now the thing he wants most in the world is to go get that knife, the demon-killing knife they got from that fucking bitch Ruby whose fault this all really is, and jam it into the soft spot on his temple just to make. It. All. S_top_.

He can't do this anymore, he just can't. He doesn't have the capacity to handle this latest blow on top of everything else. His sole purpose in life has always been to keep Sammy safe, and if he can't even do that anymore then what's the _point_? What is the use of continuing to fight when he has no hope of winning? The last time he had to lock Sam up in the panic room and listen to him scream and beg for help for _hours_; it nearly killed Dean. This time, he's not so sure it won't. It's like being skinned alive – worse than. And Dean's one of the few people in the world who actually _knows_ what it feels like to have his skin stripped off piece by agonizing piece. He'd still choose that over this, he'd choose _Hell_ over this. It's the worst thing he's ever experienced in his life, listening to his precious baby brother plead for his life, for Dean to help him; and to just stand there not being able to do anything.

Tears pool in his eyes and he glances up toward the sky because as ridiculous as it is to even consider, it's his last hope. He's only prayed a few times in his life; for the first thirty years of his life he didn't believe God existed and now that he knows he does, he's still pretty sure God doesn't give a damn about him. If he's even listening at all. But Dean doesn't know what else to do. He's at the end of his rope – he's on the edge of oblivion and it's either this, or jump. And if he jumped, Sam would be alone.

"Please," he breathes. "I can't …" He screws up his forehead, clenching his jaw in a lame attempt to keep from breaking down completely. "I need some help. Please."

Nothing happens, just like Dean knew nothing would, and warm, salty wetness spills down his cheeks like someone opened the floodgates. He just breaks – collapses against the shell of an old car like every speck of the will to fight he had left evaporates all at once, and he falls apart. Desperate sobs rip out of his throat, leaving him raw and exposed and shattered into a million pieces on the cold, hard ground. He sinks down to his ass on the gravel, leaning back against the car and hurling the half-full liquor bottle with all his might at the side of an old truck. It connects with the steel and bursts into a thousand tiny shards of glass, the amber liquid exploding into the air like blood, like shrapnel, and Dean lets his head thunk back into the car door and just cries. His whole body shakes with the enormity of everything that's happened – everything he can't _stop_ from happening no matter how much he tries, no matter how much of himself he gives – and he just lets the sobs overtake him because it's all he has left anymore.

Dean's not quite sure how long he sits there, but it's long enough that he starts hiccupping as the tears finally slow, and the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel startles him a little. He blinks up through watery eyes – Casiel is standing there, looking down at him with blatant concern written all over his usually expressionless face. Dean feels like he probably should be embarrassed that the angel found him hiding in the middle of a scrap-yard, slumped on the ground and crying like a little kid, but he isn't. Maybe because shame is just one more thing he doesn't know how to feel anymore. He only has room for a certain number of gut-wrenching emotions at once, and heartache so deep it's physically painful takes up a lot of space. Hopelessness so black it's like tar quicksand doesn't make it easy to be able to focus on much else but drowning in it.

To Dean's complete surprise, Cas actually joins him on the ground – he slides down the car and settles beside Dean. He looks uncomfortable, the way he sits is too rigid and too posed, but he stays put anyway, and for a few long minutes he doesn't speak; he just stares straight ahead unblinkingly and lets Dean sniff and hiccup and attempt to pull himself back together. Dean tugs his sleeve over his hand and wipes his eyes with it, taking a few deep, shuddering breaths of crisp night air to steady himself.

"Pretty pathetic, huh?" he mutters, sniffing again and clearing his throat.

Cas presses his lips together and shakes his head slowly. "I've never known what it's like to feel what you're feeling right now, so I couldn't say. But I'm quite sure you're not pathetic."

Dean snorts in derision and rolls his eyes. That's not even close to the truth. Dean _loathes_ himself in moments like this; he's the most pitiful, sorry excuse for a person he's ever met.

"He's your brother," Cas insists somberly. "_That_, I do understand. There used to be nothing I wouldn't do for my brothers."

"Yeah," Dean sighs. "And now they all hate you because of me."

"I don't blame you for that. You shouldn't blame yourself either. I made my choice. It was my decision. And if I had to do it over again, I wouldn't do it any differently."

Dean nods a little and lets his head fall back against the car again. He squints up at the dark navy sky for a few minutes, alight with thousands of glittering stars, but it's like they're mocking him so he drops his gaze again.

"I saved you once, you know."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You've saved me tons of times."

"I have." Cas nods solemnly. "But the time I'm referring to was many years ago. You were sixteen. Sam had just turned twelve."

"Oh." Dean frowns. "Wait, you've been watching us for that long?"

"I've been watching you since you were born."

"You – seriously?" Dean splutters. "Fuck, that's – how come you never talked to me until like a year ago?"

"I was never given permission to make contact," Cas explains, eyebrows furrowing like he doesn't understand what Dean's upset about. "I am your guardian angel. I was assigned to watch over you, to keep you safe. You're not supposed to know we're there."

Dean huffs a laugh. "Well that's not super creepy at all."

Cas cocks his head in bewilderment. "Why? I would never have harmed you."

"Cause I've basically had a stalker since I was a baby!" Dean shakes his head. "Never mind. So what happened when I was sixteen?"

"You were hunting a pack of werewolves. You father was chasing after a small group of them, further into the woods, and you were left to fight two of them on your own," Cas recites evenly. "Sam was supposed to stay in the car, but he saw that you were outnumbered so he took a gun from the trunk and ran after you."

"I … I think I remember that, actually," Dean says, squinting as the memory comes back to him. "We were in … Florida, somewhere, right?"

"Tampa," Cas confirms. "It was very hot."

"Right, yeah. Dad told Sam to stay in the car but he just showed up out of nowhere," Dean recalls. "He got scratched, one of them took a swipe at his belly. He was all cut up, but he still shot the sucker right in the face. Dad was furious."

"But you were so proud of him," Cas adds, smiling just a little.

"Yeah." Dean grins back and shakes his head a little again. He _was_ proud of Sam, that he remembers vividly.

"The part of that story you don't know, is that there was another one. A third one, behind you," Cas continues, blinking his wide, blue eyes. "You didn't see him. Sam was bleeding and that was all you could think about, you even dropped your gun in your haste to get to your brother."

"And you killed him?" Dean asks, surprised. It's a little bit freaky to consider the fact that Cas has actually been around all this time, and he never knew.

"I got in a lot of trouble for it. They considered assigning someone else to your case. I was never supposed to interfere." He frowns again and stares at the ground near his feet. "But I had to do it. You were vulnerable, defenseless. He would have ripped you to shreds."

Dean considers him for a few minutes; he really doesn't know what to say. 'Thanks' seems stupid – it was so many years ago that a proper thank-you is way overdue, but at the same time Dean doesn't think Cas would get anything out of being thanked. He'd just tilt his head to the side like he does when he's confused and bluntly inform Dean that it was his job to protect him. Kind of like how Dean does with Sam. He's never needed Sam to be grateful to him; it's second nature to look out for his little brother. He doesn't to it for the praise. He does it because it's part of who he is.

"Can I ask you something?" Dean asks finally.

"Of course."

"Can we win this? I mean, are we kidding ourselves, thinking we can fight this?" It's something Dean hasn't been able to get out of his head lately. He puts on his brave face for Sam because he has to, but there's something about Cas's piercing gaze that makes Dean think the angel sees right through him anyway, so it's pointless to lie to him. "Everybody says we're gonna say yes eventually. Do you think they're right?"

For a long moment, Cas just stares at him, so intensely it makes Dean squirm. When he speaks, his voice is soft and maybe a little bit sad.

"I really don't know. A few months ago, I would have told you there's no hope of resisting. That if Michael wants you to say yes then you will."

"And now?" Dean pushes.

"You … have taught me a lot in the last little while," Cas replies seriously. "It still rarely makes sense to me, but against all the odds, you and Sam continue to defy the path that was designed for you. If Gabriel is to be believed, you were chosen to be the Michael sword long before you were born, long before your _parents_ were born. You could not begin to understand how complex this plan must be. It has been centuries in the making, by any logic you should not have a distant hope of fighting it. But there is something within you and your brother that makes it difficult for Zachariah to control you. He continues to underestimate you. I think perhaps the power of your love for and loyalty to Sam is more than angels are able to comprehend. I don't fully understand it. But I can see it."

Dean nods thoughtfully. Again, he isn't sure exactly how to respond. Cas has that effect on him sometimes. And when Cas says things like that, Dean gets this scratchy, awkward feeling that what Cas is really saying is that he knows about him and Sam, like _knows_ about them – the things they do that no one else is supposed to ever find out about, especially not an honest-to-god angel of the Lord. It makes Dean _really_ uncomfortable to think about how likely it is that Cas knows all those intimate things about him, but at the same time it sort of makes him feel understood; like he really doesn't have to explain to Cas how he feels about Sam, about _anything_, because on some level Cas already knows.

"You think he's gonna be okay?" Dean asks softly.

"I do," Cas answers, quietly but surely. "He's strong, Dean. Stronger than even you know. Famine was right, anyone else would have died after consuming as much blood as Sam did the first time. But he didn't. He's a fighter, he has you to thank for that."

Dean's stomach twists into a painful knot. "He got wiped clean last time," he argues weakly. "One minute he was tweakin' like a meth-head and the next minute he was totally fine. We haven't actually had to _do_ this before, not … I mean, what am I even supposed to say to him? That it's okay, that I'm not mad at him? Like that would fix anything? What could I _possibly_ say to him that would make _any_ of this better?"

Cas doesn't respond, he just exhales heavily and stares stonily ahead at the rusted-out truck in front of them. Dean doesn't honestly expect Cas to have any answers, he's just venting, but even still it hurts to actually admit out loud how hopeless he feels.

"And how come Sam doesn't get a guardian angel, huh?" Dean asks, his voice getting louder as he gets worked up. "The kid was only six months old when Yellow-Eyes put demon blood in him, how is _that_ fair? What makes me so goddamn special, what did I ever do to deserve having a body-guard since the day I was born?"

Again, Cas doesn't say anything, but this time it just pisses Dean off even more.

"I'm serious!" he cries. "If you were always there watching out for me, who the hell's watching out for _him_?"

Cas slowly turns to face him, tilting his head to the side again and frowning like Dean's question doesn't make a lick of sense to him. "You are," he says simply.

For a second, Dean's completely taken aback. Then he snorts and rolls his eyes again, even more disgusted with himself than he was before. "Yeah. Well that's just great. Bang up job I'm doin', too. The poor kid never had a chance."

"Dean."

"Shit, it's a miracle he's even made it this long!" Dean snaps.

Cas squints a little and considers him pensively. "You're a human being, Dean. You aren't perfect. But you always did the best you could with Sam."

"Wasn't good enough, though, was it," he grumbles bitterly.

"I don't think that's true. He showed incredible strength today," Cas insists. "He couldn't fight Famine because no one can fight Famine once they're infected, but he _tried_. He tried to do the right thing. Don't you think that's something he learned from you?"

Honestly, Dean doesn't know _what_ to think. Partially because he isn't in the mood right now to admit that he's ever done anything to Sam other than cause him harm, and partially because Cas's declaration that _no one can fight Famine_ just reminds Dean that he was the only person not to be affected – and _why_. He doesn't want to believe that he's dead inside, that Famine felt for his soul and just found a big, black _nothing_, but he's out of other possible explanations. He certainly _feels_ dead inside, as much as he's tried to convince himself otherwise. And after having his fears confirmed by an actual horseman of the goddamn apocalypse, Dean knows he won't be able to even pretend to believe his own lies anymore.

"C'mon," he says heavily, heaving himself up off the hard ground. "Let's go check on him."

* * *

><p>By the time Sam's agonized screams finally slow and eventually stop all together, Dean's come to the conclusion that Famine actually was right about him. He's broken down, he's running on empty; he just has <em>nothing<em> left inside him anymore. Hours of listening to the little brother he always tried so hard to protect, the _man_ Dean loves more than life itself, calling for help, begging for it to stop as his own mind tortures him within an inch of his life – if Dean had even a single ounce of strength left in him, it's gone now. He's just finished. He can't keep going, he can't keep living like this. He barely wants to keep living at all; he's quite convinced the only thing keeping his heart from just giving out is the knowledge that Sam's down there needing him right now. So, fine; if Dean's entire existence has been whittled down to being whatever Sam needs him to be in that specific situation, then that's just how it'll have to be. Dean can put himself on autopilot if that's what it takes. It's better than the alternative. Dean doesn't even know what the alternative _is_ exactly – driving to the closest city and throwing himself off the first tall building he can find sounds pretty appealing at the moment.

He slides the little metal latch open and squints through it, just to make sure Sam's really done and this isn't just some trick the blood's trying to pull. Sam's exactly where Dean left him a few hours ago, flat on his back on the too-small cot, arms and legs handcuffed securely to the iron posts of the bed; except now, instead of convulsing and shouting and pleading Dean not to leave him, he's lying perfectly still except for the occasional twitch. He's drenched in what must be ice-cold sweat by now, his skin so pale it's almost green and his eyes have dark circles underneath them. Dean spins the vault-lock to the left, pulls the big door open and steps into the room – Cas trails behind him, wordlessly, but mostly Dean ignores him.

Sam knows they're there, Dean can tell by the way his brother's breathing goes a little shallower, but he doesn't open his eyes. Dean makes his way cautiously towards him, stopping only when he gets close enough to reach down and touch Sam's thigh. Sam doesn't respond, but he tosses his head to face the other direction on the pillow, like he's trying to shrink away from Dean's hand but he can't because he's chained up.

"Sammy?" Dean asks tentatively. "You okay?"

Finally Sam opens his eyes, but he still won't look at Dean. He just nods shortly, once, and then tugs a little at the cuffs like he wants Dean to take them off but has forgotten how to ask. Dean frowns, unsure of what it means exactly that Sam won't speak or meet his eyes, but he digs the little silver key out of his pocket and goes about freeing Sam from his confines. He swallows thickly over a lump in his throat when he notices how deep the ligature marks are; deep purple bruises blossoming in a ring around both Sam's wrists and ankles; one wrist is even cut on the underside and there's dried blood all over the chain and Sam's sleeve. Dean hated having to tie Sam up like this, but he had to – last time he didn't and the blood was throwing Sam's helpless body all over the room, smashing him into walls and the desk like he was a marionette puppet.

As soon as the handcuffs are all off and Sam can move his limbs again, he rolls over onto his side facing away from Dean and curls himself into a ball, pushing his face into the pillow and letting the tiniest little whimper slip out.

"Sam?" Dean asks again, his voice wavering uncertainly as he lets his hand settle over Sam's ribcage in what he hopes is a comforting gesture, but Sam flinches away from him.

"I'm fine. Leave me alone," he whispers, voice rough and weak from hours of shouting himself hoarse.

It absolutely breaks Dean's heart, or what's left of it anyway. He sits down on the cot beside Sam's hip, rubbing his back gently. He's vaguely aware that Cas is still there, just a few feet away watching them, but he's almost completely focused on Sam. "Let's get you upstairs and into a real bed. You'll feel better tomorrow."

"Dean," Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off quietly but firmly.

"I'm not leaving you, so you can just forget it. C'mon, you gotta sit up, okay? Just for a minute, just so Cas can make sure you're clean. Then you can sleep."

Sam shakes his head slowly, face rubbing into the cotton pillowcase. "You don't gotta do this. You can go, I'm fine."

Dean frowns deeply. He glances over at Cas, who looks just as confused and unsure as Dean feels, so he gets up and walks around to the other side of the cot, crouching down in front of Sam and brushing his fingers lightly over Sam's clammy cheek.

"What're you talkin' about? Why would I wanna go anywhere?"

Sam sighs a little and mumbles something – his words get smushed into the pillow so Dean doesn't hear everything, but he manages to catch "let you down", and "don't even wanna be around me".

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, gritting his teeth against a wave of emotion so powerful it almost takes his breath away. The last thing he ever wants Sam to think, _ever_, is that he could mess up so much Dean wouldn't want to be around him anymore. Sam means more to him then that, _family_ means more to him then that.

"Go see if Bobby needs help with anything, 'kay Cas?" Dean instructs when he finds his voice again.

"I should really make sure it's gone."

"In a bit," Dean insists, shooting a meaningful look at the angel over Sam's shoulder. "You can poke and prod at him all you want later. I need a few minutes with my brother. Please."

Cas frowns, but nods. "Alright, I … alright."

"And take the stairs, would ya?" Dean adds quickly. "Last thing Bobby needs is you poppin' up outta thin air and givin' him a heart attack."

Cas nods again, somberly, and steps out of the room. He lingers for a moment with his hand on the door, glancing back at Dean as if to ask whether or not he should leave it open behind him, and Dean shakes his head no so Cas pulls it closes as he leaves; the dull clang of the metal echoes strangely around the circular room. As soon as they're alone, Dean gets up off the floor and nudges Sam's shoulder.

"Come on Sasquatch, up you get."

Sam opens one eye and looks up at Dean warily, and even though Dean can only see a little sliver of his face between the pillow and his messy hair, Sam still looks exhausted and Dean wants more than anything to just let him rest. But he's not letting Sam's comments go. He gets a grip on one of Sam's hands and tugs him up to a sitting position, pushing Sam's feet down onto the floor and the dropping down beside him on the rickety cot. Sam sort of slouches over a little, too bone-tired to even keep his head up, but Dean wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls his brother against his side, and between the two of them they manage to keep Sam mostly upright.

"Okay look, we need to get something straight right now," Dean says softly. "You didn't let me down, not for one second. I'm not mad at you, I'm not anything."

Sam just crumbles, every muscle going lax as he dissolves into quiet tears and slumps into Dean's chest. His head lolls onto Dean's shoulder, arms sliding around Dean's waist and squeezing him tightly like he needs something solid to hold onto in order to keep himself from sliding bonelessly to the floor. Dean knows exactly how he feels. He wraps his arms around Sam's trembling body, resting his chin on the top of Sam's head and rubbing slowly up and down his back.

"It's okay, Sammy," he whispers. "You're okay."

"I'm so sorry," Sam rasps. "I screwed everything up. I tried so hard to fight it, Dean, I swear I did."

"Shh, I know," Dean soothes, hot tears burning behind his own eyes.

"But then they were right there in front of me, and I just _couldn't_," Sam continues miserably. "I didn't wanna hurt you again. But it was in my head, it was like I couldn't control it. Couldn't stop it."

"I know," Dean repeats. "Hey, you _did_ fight it. There was a whole Thanksgiving feast worth of demons in that diner, and he was gonna just let you have at them. You could've bled them dry, every one of them, but you didn't."

Sam sniffles like a little kid and pushes his face into Dean's neck, and Dean brings one hand up to cup the back of his head, stroking his damp, tangled hair.

"You and me are gonna be fine," he assures, pressing a kiss to Sam's sweaty head.

"You promise?" Sam asks breathlessly, sounding all of about ten years old again, like he'd just made a mistake on a hunt and he's worried sick that Dean's gonna be disappointed in him.

Dean hugs him a little tighter. "I promise."

He needs Sam to believe it. After everything Sam went through in the last few hours he deserves to be held and comforted, he deserves to be optimistic that things are going to get better. But Dean's not entirely sure he believes it himself. Just the opposite, actually. He still loves Sam, loves him with all his heart, but things haven't been okay between them in a really long time. Dean hasn't been wanting to admit that to himself, but it's the truth. And he's not sure anymore whether they ever will be again.


End file.
